Searching For Syllables
by Kyndraeonsis
Summary: A Prequel to "The Heartbeats Behind The Words". Luna is starting to find herself thinking about the word "love" more and more. Luna is starting to find tear marks on her pillow, more and more. Luna knows its because of Hermione Granger. And she knows exactly why.
**Searching for Syllables**

Love.  
Its a peculiar word.  
One syllable, it should take nothing at all to say it.  
People spend so much of life looking for that syllable though.  
Because its easy to say, but its hard to mean.  
Words needs feelings to form. It's how you can spot the real ones.  
And love, may be the most real and special word I know.  
It has a lovely story behind it, someone had to feel something very special to make that word.  
And then people found that specialness no matter where they went or who they met.  
And we got the word love.  
And I love, 'love'.  
Love is in so many things, and people found a way to feel them all, all the loveliest things on earth and find that one thing that fits them all.

People who like me say I have a lot of love, and I like them for that.  
Other people say I have too much, so they think I start giving it to silly things.  
I find it funny, that they think I'm silly for that.  
Those people feel a lot of silly little things for a lot of silly little people.  
And they call that love. But they don't call it silly.  
They do these 'things' and it stops being silly and becomes 'mature'.  
I never liked their idea of maturity.  
I decided a long time ago that I didn't want their sort of love.  
I didn't need it.  
I'm not conventional. I don't need to be conventional.

Hermione isn't conventional either.  
She's a lot like me, I think.  
I hope she doesn't mind me saying that.  
But I always loved Hermione, she pushes her passion into everything she does.  
You can see it in the way she reads, how she loves, and loves, and loves, studying every corner she can find for new words and meanings.  
I try that sometimes, but she can do it without turning the book upside down.  
But then there come the silly people, who tell her she loves reading "too much".  
They say that about a lot of weird people like us.  
We love things, often the wrong things, "too much".  
They say it like there is a right way to love something.  
That there are right things to love.

...This isn't just about the books anymore.  
And its not just about girls either.  
I'm a little strange when it comes to love...

The 'mature' love, many people want, whether they are silly or not. I never have.  
It made everything seem less special.  
But I always liked the romance that went with it.  
There's something sweet in all those little rituals and silly things people do to show they care enough to make people smile.  
And they don't always make sense to anyone else.  
You just need to find someone who understands it, understands you.  
It feels special, like a precious little thing that you made and only you can see.  
But... that might just be me.  
And she might not feel special, if it was me...

Hermione needs to be understood.  
She's never been understood, and I can see she wants to be.  
She deserves to be.  
I let go of the idea that people might understand me, so I just focus on loving them, and knowing I can't show them in a way they will understand.  
But Hermione is brave, and she will one day find someone who does understand her.  
And when she does, I will cry happy tears for both of them.  
Because the day Hermione gets to give her love, there will be so much of it, that whoever has it will never stop giving her theirs.  
So long as she gets that, I'll live without those tender autumn eyes.  
I'll live without her swooshy brown hair, and the beautiful dance it does with her laugh.  
I'll even live without that smile. My smile. The one she does just for me. The one that makes me feel like the most precious thing in the world, thinks I am precious too.  
I can live without all those things, if I can help her find something that makes her want to do those things to.  
Something that makes her smile, like the musty scents of books do.

...Musty

...Such a sad little word...


End file.
